


It's all dead now

by Llamadramaphan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Dean, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Sibling Incest, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llamadramaphan/pseuds/Llamadramaphan
Summary: There's a bruise on Sam's cheek.And his lips are sinful.





	

A bruise doesn’t bloom.  
The lilac doesn’t form into wonderful pedals as they spread across his youthful cheeks, the blood he’s already washed off no flower stalk as its shadows draw their lines just next to his shaven sideburns.  
It’s not beautiful, that bruise.  
It’s more like a burnt-down fireplace, like wood turned black and fire that’s travelled up into the dark skies above him, leaving behind cuts, reminiscent of the one who put them there.  
The one who now crosses the room, hands fiddling with the old 45. as it lays within his calloused grip with the same ease it has for the past years. And Sam watches his tail, eyes gone blank and pupils overshadowed by what just happened, a silk-like blanket as it darkens the brown pearls, sitting just underneath his bangs.  
‘Does it still hurt?’ he hears the question as if his ears were stuffed by plugs, and when he slightly lifts his head, Sam understands that he never heard anything at all. Instead, he just finds the same image of his brother as he did when he had lowered his head many minutes ago, a picture-perfect display of all that their father has ever taught them, drilled into their skulls with iron fists and bullet-like commandments.  
He's eager, his brother, eager to allow his muscles to put themselves to work, to lift that arm with the 45. and aim it at whatever his mind is picturing right now, as he grits his teeth and lets a grin ghost across his lips, plush and drawn tight from the energy rushing through his still young, still hard body.  
And Sam sits across him on the bed, with lowered elbows and knees that have stopped shaking long ago, with an ever-expanding ribcage, expanding around the stuffed air around them, expanding around the words within his head.  
‘Does it still hurt?’  
He wonders, silently, if that is what he wants to hear.  
If that’s what will stop his fists from aching as he continuously presses his fingernails into the once soft flesh of his hands, if that is what will cause him to finally grasp the will within himself to stand up and follow his brother into the excitement driven frenzy, the bloodlust of someone who’s still able to be enthused by killing.  
But the words don’t come.  
Just like there’s no flower that blooms and no bloodlust rushing through his veins.  
It’s all dead now, he thinks, without grasping what the words mean that his mind is forming on its own accord, as if to replace the silence, only disturbed by the continuous aching and throbbing of his cheek. He doesn’t want to understand. He just wants to sit there and think that it’s all dead now, wants to make that sentence a mantra of its own, like the ones he has to learn by heart and recite to John every morning, the ones that roll of his tongue with ease now and that impressed his old Latin teacher back at a school that’s already reached the fog of irrelevance within Sam’s memory.  
“5 miles.”  
The first words to reach Sam’s ears for god knows how long. Probably since before that bruise burned itself onto his cheek, etched itself into his once rosy skin.  
Sam looks up.  
Looks up to be faced with his big brother’s typical stare, typical in the sense that Sam has grown used to those drawn-together eyebrows, those almost judging green eyes that shimmer so beautifully when in the right mood. When directed at a diner’s waitress, all headlights and bashful smile to accompany that gleeful shine. When directed at a little brother with drawn up shoulders and ribs that form bulges under his thin skin, they grow hard. Harder than they used to when the little brother was still made up of neatly trimmed fingernails and knobby knees, when his cheeks were still rosy and plush and not dirtied by bruises and cuts.  
Their eyes meet, for a moment.  
And it’s almost as if Sam can see that old warmth, hidden somewhere deep behind a wall of discipline and early teenage-guilt. He sees it as the moon casts light onto the wooden floor before them, as the sounds of the woods surrounding them slowly come back from their hiding spot and etch themselves into Sam’s conscious.  
“Dad said they’re 5 miles away.”  
And Sam nods his head, because he knows this. Has known since they first set foot into this wooden hideout and listened to their father’s gospel over Dean’s cheap throwaway phone. 5 miles, he’d said. 5 miles.  
“We should book it if we wanna be there on time. Come on.”  
And Sam nods again, because there’s no way he could deny anything that stems from his brother’s lips. Anything, Everything.  
It all deserves meaning, it all deserves to be followed and obeyed, because it’s his brother’s words after all. Because who would listen to him otherwise, if not Sam? His loyal little brother that wears the bruises inflicted by his worrying big brother like armour as they leave the shed, guns pressed into their hand-me-down jeans.  
He follows him out into the night, where his ribs expand around ice-sharp air and where his skin shudders against the temperature. But he follows.  
Because who else would follow Dean, if not Sam?  
Who else would account him with the respect he deserves, if not Sam?  
Who else would wear the bruises like a necklace, if not Sam?  
Who else would stumble after him, out into the night, with young hands clenched around the grip of a gun, with raw lips and a cheek that has begun to bleed again?  
Who else would do all that, all that for…  
“Come on, kid.”  
For that.  
For exactly that.  
For that and the lingering touch, the almost gentle caresses and warm smiles that Sam sometimes gets to be the recipient of. He doesn’t care for the bruises, not really. Doesn’t care if they don’t bloom like they do on those girl’s throats, doesn’t care if teachers send him lingering stares and worried glances. He won’t ever care. Because now that they’re pulling open the doors of their sleek black car, now that they’re sitting on their assigned seats with the windows rolled up, now nothing matters anymore.  
Doesn’t matter anymore because Dean still radiates dirty excitement, because it’s in moments like these where he’ll lean over and press his lips to Sam’s, without letting the usual blow follow. To the cheek, to the nose, to Sam’s eyebrow where the wound draws little rivers of blood that then travel down to his sinful lips, to his dirty, shameful lips.  
And he does it again, for the second time this evening, but now without letting another bruise burn into Sam’s skin afterwards.  
Instead, he just leans back into the driver’s seat, shotgun loaded and ready to go on his lap, with Sam’s once bright eyes set upon him to his right.  
And Sam’s cheek is still throbbing as Dean starts up the engine, as they set out to meet their father – 5 miles away.  
And his shameful lips etch into the shadow of a smile as he licks them, lowers his teeth in order to draw blood, in order to taste the gravity of what they’re doing, of what they’ve been doing ever since Sam asked that one crucial time, asked if Dean could show him how, show him how to do it like in the movies.  
That one crucial time that Dean obeyed his little brother, instead of the other way around.  
The one time that ended with Sam on the floor, bleeding from his nose as it was broken for the first time.  
But it doesn’t matter anymore.  
It’s all dead now, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't really know what happened here, I just had a thought about how glorified and romanticized bruises are nowadays, and how I wanna write it the opposite way. It all kind of went downwards from there, I guess...
> 
> Thanks if you enjoyed this, I apologize for any mistakes (trust me, there are surely a lot of them) and would love it if you were to leave a comment or kudos. 
> 
> xx


End file.
